


another chance

by bukkunkun



Category: Spider-Man: Far From Home (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Forgiveness, Headcanon, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Metaphors, Nightmare Fuel, Nightmares, Obsessive Behavior, Plot Twists, Spider-Man: Far From Home (Movie) Spoilers, Surprise Ending, Underage - Freeform, but personally the fic is complete if you read the second chapter, don't read the second chapter if you wanna stay on the good guy beck train, please like my mr beck headcanons, probably???, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 00:36:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20023636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bukkunkun/pseuds/bukkunkun
Summary: Quentin has a nightmare, but thankfully Peter is there to help him get over it.Written forkiiat love gunpoint!





	1. another chance

**Author's Note:**

> > me watching mr beck get shot and drop to the ground: lmao get up bitch you're fine
>> 
>> — 🔮 bukkun, MSc 🌟 Spider-Man PS4 🕷 (@trickscd) [July 28, 2019](https://twitter.com/trickscd/status/1155488940880625664?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw)
> 
> **If you want to just enjoy hurt/comfort beckpeter, please don't read the second chapter. Personally the story feels more complete with the second chapter, but that's on you lmao**
> 
> Written for [kii](https://twitter.com/usagi_kii) at love gunpoint! You, too, can [hold me at love gunpoint](https://twitter.com/trickscd/status/1139161238527590401) to make content you want me to!

Quentin Beck was no stranger to nightmares. 

He’d made some of them before, of course. There were the Elementals, giant, terrifying things that made William’s little girl cry at some point, and even bigger crowds utterly terrified for their lives—

The city of London knew quite well how good Beck was at conjuring illusions of nightmares, and he didn’t need to ask anyone to know that. His stinging, throbbing cheek from young Michelle Jones’s killer left hook and Ned Leeds’s less than stellar foot to the shin was enough to remind him of how positively _terrified_ they were. Sometimes, if Quentin touched his cheek, he could still feel it—hell, he certainly knew the gap in his teeth wasn’t there before it came into contact with MJ’s fist.

Nightmares were his specialty, at this point. At some time in his life, Quentin had dabbled in the art of filmmaking—he’d starred in a few little indie projects from time to time during his undergraduate years in college, his internship at Stark Industries while he made his way through graduate school. He knew the ins and outs of the industry, how to drag the darkest thoughts out from the back of someone’s mind kicking and screaming, to strike terror into people’s hearts the same way big movies and superheroes on TV would do so often.

But everything wasn’t always giant monsters and screaming, running people. 

Sometimes, the most frightening thing in the world is seeing the one you loved the most, and that was how Beck broke young Peter’s heart and put it back together again. 

Tony Stark—oh, how a single name could light a soul on fire and set stars ablaze in the vast, cold distance of space. 

Once upon a time in an abandoned construction site in Berlin, Beck watched as Peter’s heart tore in two at the sight of Tony Stark’s memory dragged through the mud, feeling a rush of vindication through his chest as he watched Stark’s living legacy, this burning bright sunspot of a boy that Peter Parker was, collapse into a violent, burning supernova. He watched, and smiled, as Peter fell apart with the nightmares that Beck stitched together, watched him struggle and weep behind his mask, feeling every year that Stark took away from him flee from young, youthful Peter’s wounds as he backed away, further and further away—

And into the Eurostar line that smeared his blood like raspberry jam across cold, unfeeling rail tracks. 

Once upon a time, nightmares put a smile on Beck’s face.

Once upon a time, nightmares were _his,_ and he was the Boogeyman, breaking the hearts of children and terrifying them into submission.

But what were nightmares but wild horses, thunderous hooves and howling whinnies like the screams of the wind, of the blood on his hands, free and untamed, with the rage of sinners, squalls of justice on the man who’d ruined the world with his prized creation, EDITH.

(She was meant to be _his, she was his, all along—_ Tony Stark couldn’t have her. _Peter couldn’t have her—_ but the sight of the boy wearing the technology Beck made something dark and heady like wine stir inside him. Like a mark of ownership—what once was his, was now _theirs.)_

What once was his was now theirs—and nightmares could turn on their master at a moment’s notice. Dogs bite hands, cats scratch legs, love turns to hate, tables turn. 

Quentin’s nightmares haunted him after the dust settled, after Peter shared a kiss with lovely little MJ, after his own heart ground to dust as he watched Peter return to him, a smidgen of lip gloss over his lips, that beautiful, beautiful smile on his face as he gently picked Quentin up like he weighed like nothing.

Like his sins amounted to nothing, like Quentin was still a soul he could save, like the infuriatingly _beautiful_ bleeding heart that Peter was. 

His nightmares came to him as he lay in bed, recovering from the bullet to the abdomen he took when Peter turned EDITH’s drones at him on his way to stop him. The look of absolute _horror_ on Peter’s face was enough to kill him, he thought, but Quentin found himself wishing he’d skipped the Kevlar that day as the past came to haunt him when he shut his eyes every night. 

When the darkness took over, light washed over him like it always did when he fell asleep these days, and he was back to where it all began. 

A young Masters graduate who thought he could take on the world, just because he was in Stark Industries, some hotshot kid who thought he was a goddamn genius just because he worked under Tony Stark. 

Suddenly, Quentin was young again, at a time when Mysterio was a lingering ghost at the back of his mind, and he was looking back at an old coworker, who looked at him with worried eyes.

“You’ve been acting weird,” said the girl in a cute little dress, and Quentin struggled to remember her face. Just that she was his age, back then. They’d dated at some point, maybe. “Are you okay?”

Was he, really. He probably said the same thing to her, because she frowned, and gave him a funny look. “Well, whatever. Mr. Stark’s presenting the stuff now, so we might as well show up for the presentation. You _will_ behave, won’t you?”

He did. 

_He tried._

“BARF?” He screamed in Tony’s face after the whole thing, in front of _her,_ in front of everyone. He could feel their eyes on him, boring into him like beams of firelight, rays of the sun, the light and heat that Stark exuded like the burning bright star he was. “That was my _life work,_ and you call it _BARF?_ ”

“Like it was some joke?” She said, and Quentin whirled around to see her face melt into Peter’s his beautiful smile warped into a sneer as his eyes met Tony’s eyes over his shoulder, and the world was plunged into the dark.

And suddenly the world was dark again, and the ghosts of his past grew larger, looming over his head like a precarious chandelier swinging over his head, the ghost of a memory of a youth in the theatre, now a man acting out the nightmares that could haunt a nation. 

“ _You’re_ a joke.” Tony’s voice reverberated in his head, echoing and terrible like trapped under the glass, and Quentin was swept off his feet, screaming as he plummeted into a raging ocean of darkness. The sky above him was glassy, reflecting thunderous waves of storming white-horse seafoam as he sunk underwater, feeling his lungs flood with blood as he felt the gunshot wound in his abdomen flare up, setting fire to his skin as pain bloomed out of his body, tearing a scream from his throat. 

His back slammed against the floor of a little ship, jerking upright to realise that he was on a ship in a bottle, thoughts anchored to the bottom as he looked up into the leering smile of Tony Stark holding him in the palm of his hand. Quentin opened his mouth to scream—to curse the man who picked his brain apart and built it again with needles and pins in a delicate little bottle, like a little snow globe on display.

Quentin scrambled back, his back slamming against the foremast of his little ship, tears flooding his eyes as he could see red swimming with black-green water, the shadows of sharks the colour of EDITH’s drones, complete with that hellish infrared of her laser sights pointed at him shining like demons’ eyes in the darkness. Dark emerald waters began to rise, coalescing into the Elemental he’d made up, reaching for him to steal his breath away as his scream dissolved into red seafoam that turned into little green spiders right before his eyes. 

Quentin’s eyes widened as he could feel the glass start to crack, water leaking through holes in the bottom of his little ship, the flag fluttering above his head mirroring the flags beneath his feet as the sea began to turn to ice—

No, to _snow,_ as beyond him he could see the Elemental monster turning into an all-too-familiar face—

 _His_ face, leering down at him as he drowned himself in his guilt, in the blood he’d shed— _would have shed,_ as Mysterio, the monster who made himself the truth. 

This was no longer just about Tony Stark, no longer just about EDITH. 

This was his sins, crawling on his back and under his skin, scuttling little spiders that rained on him like plastic little chips in a snowglobe, trapped under the glass that was the sky in a sinking, holey ship in the middle of the desolate iceland that was his mind. Mysterio, the monster he’d become as rage consumed him.

Mysterio, the man who chased away the girl he first fell in love with.

Mysterio, the monster who nearly killed a bus full of children, a city full of people.

Mysterio, the truth that held a gun to Peter Parker’s head, the truth that aimed it right at Quentin’s heart, barely brushing against Peter’s beautiful, brilliant little mind. 

Mysterio, the facade Tony Stark built in Quentin’s heart like a suit of armour, the bane of his existence.

The snow piled up higher and higher, choking Quentin of his breath as spiders filled his lungs, feeling sheer terror bubble up his throat, as he tried to scream—

_Peter, I’m so sorry—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I lo—_

“Quentin!” 

He jerked like he’d been slapped, his eyes flying open as he felt tears running down his face, his hands shooting up in some feeble attempt at protecting himself only to look up at the ceiling of a sterile-looking room, at buzzing, inefficient fluorescent lights. He blinked moisture out of his eyes, taking shuddering, painful breaths as his abdomen painfully reminded him of his injury, and for a moment, Quentin thought he was going insane—

Until Peter came into view, that beautiful smile of his on his lips like a goddamn blessing that made the lump in Quentin’s throat just grow thicker with emotion. He reached up for Peter’s face, and stopped.

God, he didn’t deserve this. 

“Hey, settle down there, big guy.” Peter laughed softly, as Quentin lowered his hand with a choked sob. “You’re alright. You’re okay.”

“Where…” His voice was rough from disuse, from pain and crying. “Where am I?”

“You’re in the hospital,” Peter replied, moving back to fiddle with something, and Quentin’s bed sat him up gently. He still winced, feeling his injury smarting up something fierce, and Peter’s apologetic face was utterly adorable. God, what kind of low had he stooped to now, falling in love with this kid? “Do you remember? I got you here just in time for the doctors to save you.” He settled back into his seat next to Quentin’s bed, and the older man realised he was in his Spider-Man suit. Figures—only Spider-Man could come visit Public Enemy Number Whatever in the hospital while he recovered. Peter’s mask was on the bedside table by his head, and Quentin sighed. Peter gave him a little smile, and looked down at the wound in Beck’s side. The man gingerly reached for it. 

“Is this… is this real?” He asked hoarsely, as if in disbelief, and pressed down on his wound.

“Whoa, dude! Stop!” Peter shouted, as Beck could feel the jolt of sheer _pain_ shoot up from his side. He winced, biting back a scream in his throat as his blood seeped through the bandages, and he laughed softly as he looked back at Peter, panting. Peter looked back at him, crestfallen, and Beck tore his eyes away from him, his own heart lurching in his chest at the sight of the boy looking at him _like that._

Like he was worth the pity. The forgiveness.

“You know I forgive you.” Peter said quietly, “I’ve told you on the bridge, I’ve told you on the way to the hospital, even when you couldn’t hear me with all your screaming.” He giggled slightly, and Quentin looked at him with wide eyes. “I won’t ever tire of telling you, Quentin.”

“That’s not what I wanted to hear.” He replied, and Peter blinked at him. Quentin shook his head, looking off to the side. “You shouldn’t have saved me.”

“That’s not what I do.” Peter replied, and Quentin’s hand balled into a fist. 

“I could’ve killed people. I could’ve killed your friends.” He said. “I—I’m a monster, Peter. Heroes kill monsters. That’s how things go.”

“Do monsters shed tears for their mistakes?” Peter asked, and the man fell quiet. He bit his lip, still resolutely keeping his gaze away from Peter. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to look at Peter—anyone would be a fool to hate the sight of the boy. He was beautiful, bright and lovely, like a sunflower on a rainy day, but that was exactly why Quentin couldn’t look at him. 

He didn’t deserve Peter’s kindness, him, of all people, the man who tried to kill his friends and defame his mentor. Hell, Beck had broken his fucking _heart_ and Peter still held him like Quentin had handed it to him on a bed of rose petals soldered back together good as new. 

“And I’m not a hero, Quentin.” Peter said, “I’m just your friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man.”

“Knock it off, Peter—” Quentin began, but Peter spoke again.

“ _Please look at me._ ”

His voice was so _wrecked,_ just like the time his shaking hand wrapped around Beck’s wrist like a vice grip, holding the gun in his hand up in the air as he looked at Beck with teary red eyes. 

_“You can’t trick me anymore.”_ He said in the same breath, the same quiver of his voice, and Quentin couldn’t _not_ look at him, turning to see that same haunted look in Peter’s eyes, that same teary-eyed gaze on him like Peter was trying hard—so goddamn _hard_ to not cry. 

“Look at me,” Peter sniffled, laughing sadly as he wiped at his nose with the back of his wrist, and Quentin wanted to reach out to him, to wipe his tears away for him himself, but his hand remained firmly in place on his bed. “You made me cry again, Quentin.”

“I’m sorry.” He said softly, and meant it. He truly was sorry. About hurting Peter—about everything he’d ever done to Peter, who didn’t deserve this, caught up in Tony Stark’s messes just like Quentin was. Peter laughed softly, crying into his hand as he looked back at Quentin, smiling past the tears that rolled down his cheeks. “Peter, I am so, so sorry.”

“I know you are.” Peter said, “You’ve never stopped saying that since I saved you.” He smiled, sniffling softly as he settled down. “I… I don’t regret that, you know. Saving you. I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Define okay.” Quentin couldn’t help but reply, and god, it was wonderful to hear Peter’s laugh. He never quite laughed like that during their time in Europe, but now in this quiet little hospital room, he had Peter’s laugh all to himself, and it was glorious, and beautiful. “How’s your friends?”

“They’re okay.” Peter replied, and looked down at his hands. “MJ and I… aren’t together.” 

Quentin blinked at him, and Peter laughed nervously, pressing his palm to his chin as he tried not to blush, but his cheeks were pink, bleeding downwards into the red of his suit, and Quentin wished he could kiss him. 

“We kinda figured it out after some time of trying to make it work…” Peter continued, “Like… we’re better off as friends, just like Ned and Betty were.” Beck didn’t know who Ned and Betty were _that_ intimately—he recognised their names from when he ordered EDITH to kill them, but that was it. Still, it sounded like it was alright, and he couldn’t help but feel a small rush of hope surging in his chest as Peter met his gaze. “I said… I told her… maybe I was just trying to find someone to pin all these feelings I have onto. I dunno.” He rubbed his arm nervously as he peered at Quentin past his eyelashes, and Quentin’s eyes widened. 

“This isn’t real.” He breathed, as Peter gave him a shy little smile. 

“Listen, I know this probably makes me sound like a jerk, and MJ said I shouldn’t be this nice to you, but I just…” Peter struggled to choose the words to say, and laughed helplessly as he ran his hand through his hair. “Quentin, I like you a lot. Maybe that’s why I really want to help you, to make you change for the better.” 

“I…” Quentin’s eyes welled with tears, as Peter gingerly shuffled closer to him. 

“You’re not Mr. Stark to me. You’re your own person, and I just know that you have it in you—you can still be a hero.” He smiled at Quentin as the man bit back a sob. “You can still be Mysterio, and save the world, with me. You can still be an Avenger, you can still do good. I know you can.” 

“You’re willing to take a chance on some washout like me?” Quentin asked, and Peter nodded. 

“I know you hate him, but Mr. Stark saw something in you, too, you know. There’s a reason why you worked at Stark Industries.” Peter said, “And I trust his judgement. Mr. Stark saw something in me too, you know.”

Tony Stark, again. The man who’d damned him, now the man who saved him. Quentin laughed disbelievingly, shaking his head as he ran his hand through his hair. Peter’s smile bloomed across his face, lovely as ever, and Quentin fell in love with him just that little bit more. 

God, this kid was beautiful. So, so goddamn beautiful, and Quentin didn’t know how he got so _lucky,_ after all that he did. 

“I like you, Quentin. I like you a lot.” Peter said, and the man met his smile, mirroring Peter’s sunflower with a wilting little daisy of a grin. “Will you let me take a chance on you?”

“I feel like I should be asking _you_ that,” Quentin laughed, and Peter laughed softly. “I wish I could kiss you.”

“Well, _I_ could do that.” Peter said, and Quentin felt his own cheeks warm up. “I mean, what with your abdomen all busted up and stuff, and I just—”

“Shut up, Spider-Man, and get to it.” He cut Peter off, finally laughing, and Peter laughed, leaning forward to press their lips together.

Another chance, Peter said. 

Maybe this time, he’ll get things right.


	2. to ruin everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> good things never last, especially to men like quentin beck.

Except nothing ever went right, not with men like Quentin Beck. 

“EDITH?” He said. 

“ _Yes, Quentin?_ ” 

“End simulation.”

Beck opened his eyes to see the bright walls of the hospital melt away into a decrepit little apartment, and the white sheets of his bed turned into the burgundy of Janet’s guest room bedsheets. He laughed self deprecatingly as he saw the illusion fall apart, his hand coming up slowly to run through his messy hair as Peter straightened up to watch the rest of the room come undone around them. 

“God, Peter, I love you so _fucking much._ ” Beck snarled, and the boy looked at him, smiling sweetly as he cocked his head. “I’m so far gone for you, I’d kill you the next chance we meet if that could mean you were mine. Or maybe that cute little MJ girl you kissed on the bridge. All your friends. Isolate you from the world the way the world has chosen to isolate me.”

He reached out with shaky hands to a ghost made of light, and Peter cocked his head at him sweetly as Beck’s hands went through his neck.

“I’d kill you so sweetly, you’d die so beautifully.” He panted, grin manic as his hands trembled with anticipation. “Take what’s rightfully mine, destroy what’s left of Stark’s legacy in you and replace it all with me.”

“You can be better, Quentin.” The illusion of Peter said, and Beck laughed in his face, hysterical as his wound only sharpened the world to a crystalline point, fine and oh so brilliant—brilliantly _tortuous,_ Beck couldn’t get enough of it. 

“I will _never_ be better, sweetheart.” He snarled back, “And I’ll drag you down to hell with me.”

“Quentin?” William peered into his room, and Peter disappeared like a second thought, the drones in the room quietly returning to a charging port in a nook at the corner. Beck gave him a little smile as he stepped inside, smiling awkwardly at him. 

(He didn’t care if they heard. It _didn’t matter_ if they heard.)

“The video’s ready.” He said, and held up a laptop for Beck to see an upload button ready and waiting for him. “Mr. Jameson’s ready to receive the file we promised him.”

Beck’s grin widened into a maniacal leer. “Send it.”

William gave him a little nod, and turned away to step outside the door.

* * *

Two blocks away, Spider-Man’s world came to a screeching halt as the screen on Madison Square Garden played out the footage Beck and his team made to the rest of the world.

 _“Spider-Man’s name is Peter Parker!”_ Beck screamed, and Peter’s heart shot to his throat. 

His life was over. 

Oh, _god_ his life was over, just as he thought it had only begun.

**Author's Note:**

> HI QUENTIN BECK IS A TERRIBAD MAN IM UNREPENTANT he's going insane and i love it.............. im howny 
> 
> fun fact i posted this during a faculty meeting lmao


End file.
